


Lie Down in Peace

by FlyingMachine



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMachine/pseuds/FlyingMachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Ben Tallmadge shared a bed with someone.</p><p>III: Valley Forge<br/>II: Franklin Township<br/>I: August, 1776- The Evacuation of Long Island</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ben Tallmadge hadn't slept in three days, since the fighting began in New York. To keep himself awake, he paced up and down the rebel lines. The Continental army had retreated back to Brooklyn Heights, along the East river, and Ben knew they would be unable to hold their positions against the full force of Howe's army should he decide to attack. Ben waited anxiously for the orders for his regiment to leave their positions on the forward lines. 

The heavy rains of the past days had turned the entrenchments into river courses. Cold mud soaked Ben to his knees and he ached with a combination of weariness and tense adrenaline that made him restless. He unwrapped the flintlock on his musket to check that the priming remained dry, and his fingers shook with fatigue.

As the downpour had lightened, dense fog rolled in. It was so thick that Ben could barely make out the men a half dozen yards away. Ben's commanding officer, Colonel Chester, stepped out of the murk.

"Lieutenant, we're moving the regiment out. Get the men under arms with packs, everything, ready to march," Chester said.

"Yes, sir," Ben replied. "Are we attacking, sir?" Ben couldn't believe Washington would order an attack with the army in such terrible condition. The torrential rain of the past few days had ruined much of the ammunition, and the men were exhausted.

"Night raid, Tallmadge. Get moving."

 

Ben's regiment marched to the East River in a ragged column. When they arrived, Ben could hardly believe what he saw.

The Continental army stretched in a long, silent line all along the East River's bank. Ben didn't think it was possible for an entire army to be so completely quiet. The heavy fog reduced the men to strange shadows. A vast array of small boats lined up along the docks, and Ben understood. This was no night attack.

Washington was sneaking the army out of Brooklyn. After the devastating defeat on Long Island, Ben knew such a retreat was the best hope of saving the Continental Army. Although Washington had gathered as many boats as possible, most of the strange little navy was overloaded to the point of nearly capsizing. 

Someone tugged his sleeve and Ben turned to see Nathan Hale. He could barely make out his friend in the dark. Hale's face was filthy, smeared with black powder.

“You made it,” Ben whispered. He pulled Nathan into a hug and Nathan squeezed him tightly. 

“Good to see you too,” Nathan said, grinning. After the heavy losses of the day’s battle, he was relieved to see Nathan alive and unharmed. The past three days had been a long blur of fear, fighting, and retreat.

"We're pulling it off," Nathan whispered as he watched the boats slip across the river. Ben eyed the men still lined up, waiting for boats. It was well after midnight, in the deepest part of the night. They were rapidly running out of time to complete the evacuation.

Empty boats lined up along the riverbank, and Ben and Nathan climbed aboard. Crammed into the flat-bottomed boat, Nathan tucked himself close against Ben's side. Though not terribly cold, the night was unseasonably chilly and the past days' rains had left the air damp. Ben was grateful for Nathan's familiar warmth against him.

Their boat rode so low in the water that Ben feared it would tip at the slightest wave. He could barely see through the fog. Nathan dozed against his shoulder, having fallen asleep almost as soon as he had sat down.

The crossing seemed to take ages, but their boat finally bumped up to the dock. Ben nudged Nathan in the ribs. Nathan jerked awake, as though he expected to see the enemy above him.

"It's just me," Ben reassured him.

"We made it?" Nathan asked him sleepily as he rubbed a hand over his face. 

"We're here," Ben answered. He looked behind him at the boats sliding across the river. "Almost all of us." He was amazed that Washington had evacuated nearly the entire army in such challenging circumstances.

Ben pulled Nathan to his feet and steadied him when he stumbled. They marched to their makeshift camp in silence, too tired to speak. There were few tents and no fires. Many of the men had nothing but what they carried with them, Ben included. His pack and musket dragged at his shoulders. Ben's camp blanket and the damp ground seemed just as appealing as any bed. Dragging Nathan behind him, he found a patch of spongy ground beneath a tree. Nathan slumped against the trunk, closed his eyes, and didn't stir. Ben draped his blanket over Nathan, lay down beside him, and finally slept.

 

The next night, Ben managed to acquire a tent. It lacked all amenities, even a cot, but after days of sleeping in the open he was grateful for the minimal shelter. He undressed down to his breeches and rolled up in his blanket. His coat made a serviceable pillow. He was nearly asleep when his tent flaps swished open. Ben levered himself up on his elbow.

"Nathan?" 

"Mind if I join you?" Nathan asked. He didn't wait for Ben's reply. He pulled off his coat and boots and slipped under Ben's blankets, adding his own on top of them. He pressed himself to Ben’s back in a long, chilly line. Ben shivered and jabbed an elbow into Nathan’s ribs. Instead of moving away, Nathan pulled Ben closer and looped an arm around his waist to keep him still. Ben jumped when Nathan pressed his cold nose against the nape of his neck.

“Stop that, you’re freezing,” Ben said. He felt Nathan’s breath of laughter, then the warm press of lips against the spot.

“Better?” Nathan asked. Ben pulled in a long breath as Nathan kissed him again, below his ear this time, finding the place that made Ben shiver. Ben had thought this was something they had left behind them at Yale. 

“Turn over,” Nathan said low in his ear. Ben shifted in his grip so that they faced each other. Nathan rested his forehead against Ben's.

“General Washington has asked for a spy to cross British lines and get an accurate count on the troops in New York,” Nathan said. “I’ve volunteered to go. I leave tomorrow. I wanted to make sure you knew, in case something happens to me."

Ben felt his stomach turn to ice. 

“You're a soldier, not a spy,” Ben said. Spying was the lowest of tactics, carried out by men whose loyalties were easily bought. That Washington would even consider a spy meant the army’s situation was even worse than Ben had realized.

“No one else will go. They said spying is coward’s work,” Nathan said. “But this might be what turns the war back in our favor.” Ben thought about what he said.

“I don’t think one spy will help Washington retake New York,” Ben said. 

"We'll never hold against an attack from Howe's entire army," Nathan argued. 

“Spies get hanged,” Ben said. The thought of Nathan at the gallows filled him with dread.

“Only if they get caught,” Nathan replied, but he sounded uncertain. Ben felt him shiver, despite the warmth of their shared blankets. 

“Don’t worry, Ben. I’m to pose as a schoolteacher travelling. I know what I’m doing," Nathan said. Ben frowned. He touched the scar from the powder-burn that marred Nathan's cheek: a common soldier's injury, less common for a schoolteacher.

“You don’t have to go,” Ben said. “Washington can find another spy. Stay and fight with us.”

"I want to do this, Ben, for our country. Do you understand?” Nathan asked. Ben nodded. He did understand. This was not a war to be fought by other men. Selfishly, he did not want Nathan to go.

"Do you mind if I stay here tonight?" Nathan asked. 

"No, of course not," Ben replied. After the past few days of vicious fighting, he was grateful for the company.

"Good," Nathan said, barely a breath in Ben's ear. Nathan kissed him then, closing the small space between them. Nathan’s lips were chapped from the cold, as Ben’s were, but Ben didn’t care. Nathan’s kisses melted the tension out of him, something familiar after the chaos of battle.

Nathan rolled Ben onto his back, settling his weight between Ben’s legs. He yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Ben pulled him back down and Nathan's skin was warm against his own. He kept Nathan close with a hand on his jaw and enjoyed every hitch of his breath as they kissed.

Nathan stroked up Ben's sides, across his chest, back down to grasp him by the hips. Ben leaned into the touch. He had missed Nathan, and it felt good to be so close to him once again. Nathan kissed his neck, mouthing at the tender spot below his jaw that made Ben's breath catch. His lips touched Ben's throat before he moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down Ben’s breastbone and stomach.

“Nathan, what—?”

“Shh,” Nathan reassured him. “Trust me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ben said. He and Nathan had occasionally explored each other in the dark nights at Yale with careful touches and shaking fingers, but this was different. Nathan seemed desperate to touch him tonight, and there was no hesitation in his actions. 

Nathan slipped Ben's breeches off his hips and kissed Ben's right hipbone, making his intention clear. When he took Ben into his mouth Ben couldn’t stifle a low moan. The heat of Nathan’s mouth was almost overwhelming and Ben clenched his hands in the blankets as Nathan worked him, biting hard into his lip to keep quiet. He wished it wasn't so dark, so that he could see Nathan's clear blue eyes that he knew so well. Nathan reached up and grabbed Ben’s hand, holding tight until Ben came into his mouth.

Nathan rested his chin on Ben’s heaving chest, grinning. Ben pulled Nathan up to kiss him, and he could feel the hard line of Nathan’s cock against his hip. Ben rolled them over and kissed Nathan as unlaced his breeches and stroked him until he bit into Ben's lower lip.

“Please,” he whispered against Ben's mouth.

Ben was out of his depth, but he learned quickly how to make Nathan moan. Nathan came for him easily and Ben liked that even more than Nathan’s mouth on him. When Nathan had caught his breath, he pulled Ben up by the shoulders and tucked him against his chest. Ben was more than warm now, and he could hear Nathan’s racing heart beneath his ear. Nathan stroked through his hair, pulling it loose from its braid. He ran his fingers lightly from Ben’s temple to his nape before continuing down Ben's spine and back up.

"This might be the last time I see you," Ben said quietly, feeling compelled to speak his thoughts. The realization that Nathan might not return sat coldly in his chest.

"It would be an honor to die for my country," Nathan said, almost to himself.

"It would be better if you lived for our country," Ben said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“If I don’t go, what can I say that I did? What else can I do?” Nathan asked Ben. Ben found Nathan's hand and laced their fingers.

“Come back,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I compressed the historical timeline in this chapter significantly- Hale didn't embark on his spy mission several weeks after the evacuation.
> 
> Ben received his commission as a Lieutenant in Colonel Chester's Connecticut Regiment in June 1776. He received his commission as a Captain in the Light Dragoons when the regiments were organized in December 1776.


	2. Chapter 2

Ben was lost. Gamble's pursuit had forced him off the main road and onto side paths that led deep into the woods. He knew this should concern him, but he was completely occupied with staying on his feet as he searched for a place to stop, rest and attempt to bind up the wound in his side. It pulsed with pain, and Ben’s knees threatened to buckle with every step. Now that he was finally out of immediate danger and his adrenaline had ebbed away, he was completely exhausted, lightheaded and shaking. The cold rain had soaked him to the skin. When he touched his side, his hand came away wet with fresh, warm blood. 

Ben leaned against a tree and pulled his shirt up to have a look at the wound. A wave of sick dizziness washed over him when he saw the damage. Even in the dark, it looked worse than he had expected. He had thought Gamble’s shot had only grazed him, but he was wrong. The ball had struck him full in the side, above his hip. He was lucky it had missed his belly. A hasty, unpleasant examination of the wound revealed that the pistol-ball remained in his side. He allowed himself to rest for a few moments, until he felt a little steadier. 

He wanted only to sit down and be still, but he knew if he did so he'd likely never get up again. The thought that he could very well die here sent a cold chill of fear through him, followed quickly by hot anger that surprised him with its strength. He had not escaped Gamble only to bleed to death in the backwoods of New Jersey. He thought of his friends, who relied on him to keep them safe. Should he die here, they likely wouldn't even know what happened to him. Ben pulled himself up straight, feeling a bit of his resolve return. His situation, while bad, was not yet hopeless. He could still move, and if he could find a place to hide out until morning, he knew he could navigate himself back to safety. He looked around the dripping forest, hoping for some clue as to where he was. 

When he saw the spot of light amidst the trees, he thought he imagined it. Darkness had been hovering on the edges of his vision for some time now, and the woods had taken on a strange, flat-gray quality. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and the light remained, bright and steady. Ben forced himself to move. Light meant people, possibly a place to stop and rest and see to his side. The wound needed attention– Ben was nearly at the end of his endurance.

He picked his way along the narrow path, mud slipping under his boots. The light he'd seen burned in the window of a little farmhouse. He hoped whoever lived there would not meet him with a musket. As he drew closer he noticed the outline of a barn, and decided it would be safer to hide out there, where he could rest for a while without being discovered. Perhaps he could avoid revealing himself to the homestead's owner entirely.

He headed for the barn, using the treeline for cover. Thorns and underbrush tugged at his clothes. Ben focused only on remaining upright and moving forward, though each step sent a jolt of pain through him. His toe caught on a root and the wound pulled, agony searing down his side. Spots crawled across his vision as the ground seemed to rise up to meet him. Ben fell, and darkness took him under.

 

Ben woke to the impression of dim light. He lifted heavy eyelids just enough to see a woman bending over him, silhouetted by the fire behind her. She yanked his shirt up and cold air hit his ribs. Ben gasped as she slid her fingers into his wound, feeling for the bullet. She left him, and Ben closed his eyes. He was lying on a bed, out of the rain. He did not remember how he had gotten here.

The woman returned and something cold touched his wounded side. He felt the scrape of metal on metal and she pulled the pistol-ball from the wound. A spike of pain slid straight into his stomach and Ben thought he might vomit. He clenched his teeth against the pain and fought the overwhelming urge to flinch away. 

He barely felt the stitches or the bandaging— after the pain of being shot and then having the ball extracted, neither seemed as terrible. She picked up his right hand in her own and gripped it tightly as she prayed over him. 

_"I am the resurrection and the life..."_

It was worse than Ben had thought, then.

Her hands were very warm. With what little strength he had left, Ben cracked his eyes open. Her face swam into focus, her blue eyes wide with worry.

“Thank you,” he whispered. The words seemed inadequate. This stranger had almost certainly saved his life. She looked down at him and smiled with relief.

Then he fainted.

 

His host's name was Sarah Livingston, and Ben was currently her guest, occupying the only bed. Sarah had believed his hastily made-up story, that he was a minister named Benjamin Brewster, but he still feared that she might discover his true identity as a soldier in the Continental Army. Without knowing where her loyalties lay, he did not particularly want to reveal that information. He was relieved when she put her rifle back over the fireplace. He had no doubt that she knew well how to use it.

Sarah had removed his boots and ruined waistcoat before tucking him under the quilts. Ben explored his injured side carefully, finding his shirt stiff with dried blood and the lump of bandages beneath it. The wound throbbed, pain stabbing up his side and down into his hip. He ached from his fall from the horse. He was filthy, bloody, and certainly not fit company for anyone. He wished for a bath, even just to wash the blood off of his hands. 

He couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so terrible, not even after he’d fallen into the Delaware river. Caleb had been with him then, keeping him warm while he recovered from the shock of the frigid water. Caleb's presence had been a calm, steady reassurance as he'd drifted in and out of consciousness. Now Ben was alone, a guest in the home of a stranger. He knew he needed to get up and head back to camp, but his wound hurt badly enough laying flat in bed and he doubted he even had the strength to stand.

Ben cursed himself for the mistakes that had gotten him here, instead of back at camp where he should be. He hardly deserved his post as head of intelligence. He had been captured by the enemy, wounded, and his only saving grace had not been his own wits but the kindness of a stranger. He already dreaded the report he would have to make to Washington when he returned.

He had not wanted to kill the Reverend, but there was no other way. Worthington was a traitor and deserved the judgment he received. And yet Ben still felt a thread of guilt; he had looked an unarmed man in the eyes and shot him dead. Grief and anger twisted his stomach. Ben turned on his good side and curled his fingers over his injury. Retribution for murdering the minister had certainly been swift, he reflected bitterly.

 

Sarah’s cooking smelled wonderful, and Ben actually felt hungry for the first time since he’d arrived. He had vague memories of her carefully tipping warm broth into him, but he'd eaten nothing of substance since he had left camp. After days in bed, Ben was determined to get up and eat at the table properly. Sarah smiled at him when she saw him awake.

"You're looking better," she said. "Are you feeling better as well?" Her gaze did not leave him as she finished setting the table.

"Yes, thank you," Ben said, his voice rough from disuse. He was feeling better, though still sore and tired despite sleeping for what must have been the better part of several days. He sat up slowly, testing the wound, and was relieved when it only gave a minor complaint. When he looked down at himself, he was startled to see that he wore someone else's clothes. His filthy shirt and breeches were gone, and the blood had been washed from his skin. Heat crept across his cheeks as he realized that Sarah must have changed his clothes and cleaned him up while he slept. Ben was used to the close quarters and immodesty of army life, but it seemed indecent for a stranger and a woman to see him undressed. He wondered when her husband would return. 

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood carefully. The wound hurt, but it was bearable. He felt weak but steady, until he took a step away from the bed. Moving pulled at his side, and he could feel each stitch Sarah had put in him. The room spun as a wave of lightheadedness washed over him. The wound throbbed fiercely enough to turn his stomach, and Ben gripped the bedpost as he tried to compose himself. He had no desire to pass out on Sarah’s floor a second time.

"Here, let me help," Sarah said, seeing his distress. Ben accepted the help, ashamed at his weakness. She was quite tall, he realized, and took his weight easily. He tried to ignore how neatly she fit against his side, warm, strong, and steady. She had a husband, he reminded himself. A husband who would likely be home soon.

 

Sarah Livingston's husband had been dead for a year. 

Supper lapsed into awkward silence after that revelation. Sarah had been managing her homestead alone. Ben could forgive her earlier lie about her husband's absence. She had no reason to trust him, even if she had believed his cover story. 

Now that she had told him the truth, Ben wondered if all of her care and attention had motive beyond simple kindness. He had noticed how her gaze lingered on him when she thought he wasn't looking. He wondered if he minded. He flushed again at the thought of her changing his clothes, something he could have done himself when he woke. 

After supper, Sarah went to the barn to feed the livestock. Ben managed to walk a slow circuit of the house before his wound began to hurt again. He sank back into bed, frustrated at the slow pace of his healing. He knew he would need another day of rest at least before he could attempt the walk back to camp. Even supper and his short walk had left him tired and sore.

Ben was nearly asleep when he heard the front door open and shut. A cool hand touched his cheek, checking for fever. Sarah's thumb stroked lightly over his cheekbone, and Ben realized she must have thought him asleep. When she took her hand away, Ben wished she hadn't.

 

Ben's dreams were dark and confusing. He stood in a wide, cold, river, Reverend Worthington's dead eyes staring up at him from the black water. The water closed over his head and they both drowned in the river, the Reverend taking Ben under with him. Ben couldn't breathe, water filled his lungs, and a terrible pain in his side dragged him deeper, the Reverend's empty gaze on him the whole time...

A touch on his forehead jolted Ben awake. The afterimage of his dream remained, and his heart still raced with fear. His wound ached dully, throbbing in time with his pulse. Sarah looked down at him, concerned. She stroked his hair back from his forehead, lingering on the tender bruise across his temple before tracing along his cheekbone. 

All the misery of the past few days welled up, aching deep in Ben's chest. He tried to remember the last time anyone had touched him as Sarah had: with gentleness instead of the intent to do him harm. He could not. He took her hand and drew her down to him. He had seen her loneliness, and he understood. She kissed him carefully at first, then less so, and Ben wanted to forget the things he had done for a while.


	3. Chapter 3

Nathaniel Sackett was dead. Two soldiers wrapped his body in a blanket and took it away, and Ben was left alone in Sackett's tent.

The tent was a mess, even by Sackett's disorganized standards. Ben wondered if Sackett had tried to fight before Gamble had cut his throat. If only Washington had let him debrief Gamble instead, Sackett would still be alive, Ben thought bitterly. He stared at the dark stain on the rug next to the desk. Papers and notes littered the ground. Ben barely knew where to start. 

Sackett's broken spectacles lay by the toe of Ben's boot. The fading winter sunlight glinted off their cracked lenses. Ben picked them up and laid them carefully on a clear corner of Sackett's desk. He sat down at the desk and flipped idly through a pile of papers. He needed to try to determine what had been stolen and who had been compromised. Most of the more recent dispatches containing Culper's reports were missing. Ben had no doubt the documents would go straight to British intelligence.

Not only had Andre's spy killed a dear friend, he had managed to compromise the ring Ben and Sackett had worked so hard to create. So much work had been undone in a matter of minutes, all due to his own ineptitude. He should have seen Gamble's ruse long before it reached its awful end. He felt sick, and a headache pulsed behind his eyes. He had Sackett’s blood under his fingernails. He rubbed at a smear of red on his sleeve that he hadn't noticed until now. Ben still couldn’t believe that the man he’d spoken with only this morning was dead.

Unable to focus, Ben returned to his hut to try to sleep. He removed his coat and tossed it onto his cot. He was cold without it, but he couldn't bear to have Sackett's blood on him any longer. He plunged his hands into the wash pail and scrubbed until his skin was raw and clean. He pulled off his boots and curled on his side on the hard bunk. Without anything to distract him from it, the ache that had been growing beneath his breastbone all day pulled suddenly tight as the reality of Sackett’s loss sank deep. 

Ben couldn't sleep despite his exhaustion. His thoughts chased themselves in circles as he went over the sad events of the day. He worried about what might happen to Abe should Andre work out his true identity. Ben had promised to keep him safe, and he had failed. After hours of lying wakeful, he yanked his boots back on and wrapped himself in his blanket and cloak. He hoped a walk would settle his mind, or at least tire him out enough to sleep.  


The moonlight was bright on the snow, and Ben's breath rose before him in plumes as he walked. If he did not know of the suffering of the army encamped here, he could almost find Valley Forge beautiful. The night guards offered their mumbled greetings as he passed; Ben did not respond.

He walked the fortifications until dawn, and felt no better.

 

Washington summoned him early the next morning.

"Report, Major." Washington's face was impassive. He paced the length of his tent, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"Sutherland, the man who came into camp two days ago under the pretense of defection, is a spy named Gamble. He's a lieutenant in the British army, working for John Andre," Ben said.

"Yes, Major," Washington said impatiently. "Have you determined what was stolen from Sackett's correspondence?" 

"Gamble took most of our more recent dispatches, including correspondence between Culper and myself," Ben said.

"As we suspected. Has Culper's true identity been exposed?"

"No, sir. I insisted that we only use Culper's alias in our letters, and many of them were encrypted. But Andre will know we have a spy in New York. It will not be difficult for him to guess Culper's general location, given the information he stole," Ben said. Washington nodded, his mouth tight.

"And he will know your name as well, and that you are our head of intelligence," Washington said. His tone gave nothing away, but Ben knew he was disappointed.

"Yes, sir." Ben expected that Washington would dismiss him from his post for his mishandling of Shanks and Sutherland. 

"That is not the only bad news today," Washington said. "The French ambassador from Roderigue Hortalez was attacked on the road last night. He was killed, and the royal seal stolen. Our scouts found his body this morning." Ben felt ice settle in his stomach. This was a terrible setback. The Continental army desperately needed French support. 

"Robert Rogers," Ben said. He remembered Caleb's warning of two nights ago, that Rogers was tracking the seal. It seemed the man would never cease to be a problem.

"Almost certainly," Washington replied. "He once told me that I would live to regret him. I believe that day has come."

Ben wondered if any of this disaster could be salvaged.

"Lieutenant Brewster is an excellent tracker," he said. "When he returns to camp, I'll take him and try to retrieve–"

"That won't be necessary," Washington said, cutting him off. "The seal is certainly back in British possession by now. I need you here in the camp. You are dismissed."

 

Ben returned to Sackett's cart, unsettled by Washington's news. He hoped that Caleb had not also run into Robert Rogers on the road. A chill ran through him at the thought. Caleb was more than capable of looking out for himself, but each time he sent Caleb on a mission for the ring, Ben could not help but fear that one day he might not return safe and unharmed. 

Ben gathered the scattered, bloodstained papers and tossed them into the unlit brazier as he tried to tidy up the mess. His fingers had gone numb with the cold. He clumsily snapped flint and steel into the pile and the flames caught quickly. 

"Damn, it's cold." Caleb's voice startled him, and Ben turned to see him duck into the tent. Caleb pulled him into a hug and relief washed through Ben at his safe return.

“How did your mission go?” Ben asked.

“Long, boring ride, Tallboy. I think I froze off some bits I was pretty fond of, too," Caleb said. "Got anything to eat?" Ben pointed to the plate he'd left on Sackett's desk. Caleb picked up Ben's forgotten breakfast and made a face at the cold eggs before eating them anyway. He looked tired, and his cheeks were flushed with the cold. Ben doubted he had slept since he'd left camp. Caleb walked over to the brazier and rubbed his hands together over the fire.

"Sackett got you burning up his paperwork now? Old man's too paranoid for his own good," Caleb said. "He up yet? I'm sure he wants to hear all about my stroll down the road." Caleb glanced at Sackett's closed door. Ben heard Caleb speaking but barely registered the words. 

“Ben? Something wrong?” Caleb laid a hand on his shoulder and looked at him closely. Ben swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat and forced himself to meet Caleb's eyes. He had spent much of the last night thinking about what he was going to tell Caleb.

“Mr. Sackett was murdered yesterday by a British spy,” Ben said. Caleb went completely still, staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Caleb."

Caleb turned away from him and pulled in a few deep breaths as he tried to compose himself. He looked around the tent, taking in the mess of blood-spattered papers and the broken spectacles on Sackett's desk. 

“Alright,” Caleb said, his voice rough. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Ben could see him shaking. “Alright.” His eyes were bright and he scrubbed a hand angrily across his face. Caleb pushed past him and Ben watched him walk away, his stride stiff and agitated. Ben knew Caleb wasn’t angry with him, and that he needed his own time. 

Ben sank into Sackett’s chair and dropped his head into his hands. Anger rose up to choke him, anger at his own mistakes and Washington's stubbornness. He wondered if he would not be more useful back on picket duty with his dragoons. He slammed a fist into Sackett's desk and was grateful that he was alone, with no one nearby to see his outburst.

 

Ben didn’t see Caleb again all day. He filled his time with reports and the seemingly endless and impossible task of trying to feed and clothe his troops. It felt strange to work at Sackett's desk without him there.

The evening already was bitter cold and it had begun to snow. Ben stacked a few logs on the fire and poked at the coals until it caught up nicely. The fireplaces in the huts often drafted so poorly that it was warmer by the open campfires anyway. Ben wrapped himself up in his cloak and blanket and sat by the fire. He forced himself to eat his meager dinner, though he wasn't hungry. Boots crunched behind him on the frozen ground and Ben recognized Caleb's shadow in the dark.

"You're up late," Caleb said as he joined Ben by the fire. 

"Someone had to keep the fire going," Ben said. Caleb sat close enough that they touched at shoulder and hip, and Ben could feel the cold coming off of him. Snow dusted his hat and coat, as though he'd been out walking for some time. Ben handed Caleb his blanket and Caleb wrapped himself up tightly. He pulled his flask from his pocket and offered it to Ben. It contained surprisingly-good whiskey.

"What happened to Sackett, Benny?" Caleb asked quietly, staring into the fire. "I'd like to know, if you can tell it." He deserved to know what happened to their friend, and Ben realized he needed to say it. He wanted Caleb to know that Sackett hadn't died alone.

“After you left, I interrogated Shanks again. He told me of a man named Gamble, a British spy working for John Andre. I realized that Shanks' description of Gamble matched the man we had known as Sutherland. Washington assigned Sackett to debrief Gamble, and Gamble cut his throat. I tried to help him," Ben said. 

"Not much a man can do for a slit throat, Ben," Caleb said.“I’m sorry." Ben knew he was right, but he would not forget the horror he'd felt, knowing that he could do nothing to help Sackett. Ben had felt the moment the life went out of him, Sackett's cold fingers clenched around his wrist as he went still in Ben's arms. Caleb squeezed his knee.

"You should go to bed. I'll keep the fire going for a while." Ben knew he should try to rest, though he doubted he would be able to sleep. He left Caleb staring into the fire, alone with his thoughts.

Ben's hut was freezing, and seemed little warmer than the air outside. He climbed into his bunk and lay shivering despite his blankets and the fire in the hearth. Sleep eluded him, as it had the previous night. He ached with weariness and only wanted to rest, even for a few hours. 

The fire had burned down to embers when the door of the hut creaked open then slammed shut, letting in a frigid gust of air that cut straight through Ben's clothes. Ben jumped when weight settled next to him on the bunk.

“Move over,” Caleb said, giving Ben's hip a shove. He tossed his blanket on top of Ben’s and pulled his boots off. Ben slid over to the wall and Caleb climbed in next to him. The bunks were barely big enough for one person, much less two. Even so, Ben didn’t mind sharing; he and Caleb had certainly shared cots and blankets often enough. Ben was grateful for the additional warmth.

Caleb folded himself into the bunk, his back to Ben. Caleb didn't speak, and Ben would have thought him asleep, except that he could feel the tense line of Caleb's back pressed against his shoulder and side. He wished he knew what to say to ease Caleb's grief.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Just cold, is all," Caleb replied, evading the question. Ben shifted a little more of the blanket to Caleb's side of the bunk and Caleb tucked it around himself.

"They have Culper's name," Ben said. He wanted Caleb to know whole truth of the matter. He felt Caleb go stiff beside him.

"His real name?"

"No. We were careful only to use his alias. But Andre knows we have a spy in New York now." 

"Abe'll be just fine. We'll keep an eye on him, just like always," Caleb said. "He doesn't need to know about this." Caleb's words reassured him, if only a little.

"I was supposed to debrief Gamble," Ben said. "But Washington was displeased with me, and assigned Sackett instead. I could have killed him."

"Or gotten your own throat cut," Caleb replied tightly. He turned over and found Ben's hand under the covers and squeezed it. “We’ll make sure this Gamble bastard gets his place in hell," Caleb promised, his voice low and dark. Ben resolved that he would see Gamble dead if it was his last act on earth.

Caleb slid closer to Ben, pressed tightly to his side. The heat of his body had gradually warmed the narrow bed as they lay close together. Ben could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest and he knew Caleb was asleep. Fatigue dragged at Ben, and he felt deeply weary in both body and spirit. Warm and comfortable, he curled himself against Caleb, and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I visited Valley Forge this summer- it's very pretty and the bunks are very small.


End file.
